


Mind Fuck

by HarleyRoux



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, M/M, TEW - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyRoux/pseuds/HarleyRoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruvik claims what's his inside Sebastian's head.</p><p>(AKA, I will write an actual summary when I'm not completely burnt out.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Fuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TerranceCreed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerranceCreed/gifts).



This place is _familiar._

His mind tells him **home** , but that’s too dangerous a word, even with every detail in place. The eggshell white walls are the same, as are the mahogany floorboards that lead past the small den into the smaller kitchen. Every picture framed on the fireplace mantle is identical to those locked in his memories. It’s all the more jarring to find Myra’s purse sitting on the table in the foyer, just beside Lily’s school bag. Their shoes are lined up beside the coat closet, next to the vacant spot meant for his muddied boots. Hell, even the _air_ tastes the same as Sebastian closes his eyes, nostrils flaring with a deep, tired sigh.  He swears he can smell his wife’s cooking.  He’s surprised to find how well he remembers it.

“….The hell…?”

Reason tells him to run, but his body’s too tired to listen. He’s _exhausted,_ really, and his armchair—beaten red leather—is calling his name. He limps towards it, legs carrying him before he can think twice about collapsing into it with an unceremonious grunt. It’s the same, too, straight down to the busted footrest and cigarette burns along the arm. He glances sidelong to see his ashtray waiting on the adjacent coffee table, right beside a vase of roses gifted to Myra for their most recent anniversary.

He doesn’t give a damn if it’s imaginary. Cognitive projection or not, this is by far turning out to be his favorite corner of hell.

“Thank _Christ_.”

Against better sense, Sebastian steals a precious minute to himself. Two bloodied fingers touch to each temple, his eyes squeezing shut to stave the ache that pulses against them. He’s out of smokes, low on whiskey, and a short step away from a migraine. But, somehow, he’s still breathing. And, still wholly intact. He _hopes._ He hopes more for the well-being of his partners, _wherever_ they are. They’ve been separated for hours now, though it feels far longer. Part of STEM’s charm, he supposes.

A second sigh reclines him against the cushions, his shoulders slumped and his eyes kept closed as he tips his head back. Hair sticks to the sweat across his forehead, but his arms are too heavy to brush it back. At least the silence is soothing—for a while. Every muscle whines in protest once that little voice of reason inevitably kicks back in.

_Stand up, Seb._

He groans dismissively.

_Open your eyes, **something isn’t right.**_

They flutter open with an impatient huff. In turn, the detective darts his gaze around the apartment—or rather, the memory of it—in search of something _off._ His brow narrows in hard scrutiny as he re-inspects the walls, the floor, and the photographs. But, every speck of _dust_ is where it ought to be. A third, more determined assessment brings forth nothing but rousing frustration. Sebastian can feel his nerves beginning to buzz as the air thickens around him. _Something isn’t right._ He’s home. He’s safe.

And, as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he can’t help a glance over his shoulder.

In a flash of blue static, Ruvik glides forward with an arm outstretched towards him. The tips of his fingers hover an inch from Sebastian’s seat, promising certain death with a single brush. Yet, they do not touch a hair on the unsuspecting detective’s head. In fact, they’re held back like a child’s to a hot stove; as if the contact will _burn._

Even as Sebastian whirls around, momentarily frozen in fear, Ruvik does not touch. Instead, the system’s ghost cocks his head inquisitively, his pale eyes devoid of their usual odium. It’s disarming enough to keep Sebastian off his feet for a few, crucial seconds as Ruvik draws in a focusing breath. It wills barbs to spring from the chair and coil tight around the other’s wrists. A second pair seizes Sebastian’s ankles, pulling taut to bind him into place. The detective jerks in vain, cursing out loud as his skin is bitten, drawing new blood from old wounds.

“FUCK!”

As he begins to thrash, Ruvik’s frigid hands slip over either of his shoulders. They’re gripped firmly as he towers over his subject—his _prey_ —from behind with familiar malice. It flickers in his gaze beneath the hood of his tattered coat.

“Relax. The pain will ease if you stop struggling.”

Sebastian grinds his teeth, knowing full well what little a retort would gain him. Several sharp breaths follow as he wills his body still, hands rolled to trembling fists in his effort.

“Good.”

Ruvik nods, satisfied despite his deadpan tone. Idly, a hand wanders from Sebastian’s shoulder along the side of his neck, his fingers petting through the man’s hair with foreign tenderness. The detective only strains away once Ruvik’s dirtied nails scrap along his scalp, coaxing sickly goosebumps to prick along the back of his neck.

“I said relax, _Seb._ ”

He draws away with a vague pout, not unlike the petulant child that so insistently clings to his memories. Ruvik then moves to circle the chair, coming to a halt in front of it. His arm extends once more to manipulate the man’s bounds, forcing the wires to tighten and tug Sebastian’s legs apart.

“Shit!”

The pull earns Ruvik an irritated grunt, and a pathetic attempt at a glare. It’s reciprocated with a smirk as the ghost’s gaze falls to Sebastian’s belt. Invisible hands are quick loosen the buckle before ripping it free from around the man’s waist.

Sebastian’s gaze drops, along with a feeble mask of indifference.

“…What the fuck are you doing?”

Those same phantom hands fuss with the button of his slacks, unfastening it with impatience uncharacteristic of their host. Though, impatience turns to rage thereafter as the garment is shredded completely, reduced to ribbons around the detective’s legs.

“What I _please._ ”

Ruvik leers forward and helps himself to a seat on Sebastian’s lap. His hands press flush to the other’s chest as the wires tighten to punctuate his declaration, whining in protest of their own tension.

“Stop,” Sebastian hisses the word through his teeth, the veins in his neck bulging, “You hear me? I said _stop._ This isn’t—“

He’s cut off by a scream as new barbs tangle around his throat, forcing his head back with a violent snap. Ruvik’s smirk widens as Sebastian gurgles for air, sputtering on his own blood. His gaze begins to wander again, however wantonly, as he flicks the top button of Sebastian’s shirt. They're popped free from the garment one by one, each clattering to the floor. In his reeling, Sebastian finally notices that it’s no longer mahogany, but concrete, stained with the same piss and blood that stung his sinuses upon arrival to Beacon.

“ **Don’t** struggle.”

“F-fuck you....”

He flexes his wrists, very nearly howling as the barbs dig closer to bone. Adrenaline can only ease so much as he tries again to yank himself free. Ruvik ignores the man’s futile efforts and instead sets his attention to his own pressing need. With his head bowed, he moves to roll down the hem of his unfastened pants to expose the aberration he has left for a cock.  A scarred hand strokes slowly over the charred remains of his shaft, graduating it from its half-hard state to a full, aching erection.  The sight twists and lifts Sebastian’s hips in desperate attempt to buck the bastard off. Of course, like every other struggle has been, it’s useless.

“Ruvik, _stop,_ ” he demands gruffly, “This is insane.”

The wires constrict again, tearing raw flesh as they secure his subject still. Ruvik’s eyes close as he savors an entirely new kind of thrill, the feeling so deliciously different as it laps at senses typically bombarded by pain. His blood warms beneath insensate flesh, that fog of agony lifting in light of novel, carnal pleasure.  All the while, Sebastian’s fingers grip the armrests with enough force to pale his knuckles. His teeth clench, too, as Ruvik’s free hand slips between his legs, tugging him free through the slit in his briefs.

“No—“

His breath is stolen by the other’s touch, disgusting and cold against his fevered skin. Ruvik first begins with an experiment in pressure. Inexperience is quick to shine through otherwise impeccable genius, but it can’t be helped. The ghost gives a light sigh against the struggle to maintain their cognitive link as he’s so overwhelmed with sensation. Sebastian’s thoughts flood his own, mixing memories of lovers past with cravings Ruvik has never _dared_ acknowledge aloud. Willing them away, Ruvik raids Sebastian’s mind for clues, seizing every unguarded desire in attempt to stir helpless, hopeless need in his subject.

“Let me in, detective.”

The detective thanks God in that moment for the pain. His skin burns from the cuts littered across his form, stung by sweat and reflexive writhing. It’s far easier to focus on. At first, that is.

“Get _off._ ”

His words shake with uncertainty as Ruvik tentatively changes pace. It makes him sick to his stomach to watch—sicker still when he realizes that his body is actually _responding._

“You sonuva bitch, get _out_ of my head.”

Ruvik shudders, his cock twitching once against his palm. He’s wise enough to loosen his grip and stave the rush of impending orgasm, lest he spoil his own reward. Readjusting in turn, he arches his hips so he may hold them both in one hand, working them in tandem. Again, his free hand wanders up Sebastian’s heaving chest, fingers walking to skirt a nipple.

“You can’t resist…” he breathes, “…and you _won’t._ ”

Sebastian’s jaw throbs, teeth grinding to dust behind his lips. Nauseating pleasure wells up in his gut as Ruvik tortures his cock with firm, _relentless_ stroking. The hand that binds them together soon begins to tremble, and he knows that the asshole isn’t going to last. Neither is he, but at the very least, he swears to outlast his captor.

“C’mon…” he murmurs on the tail end of a groan, “…Get it over with.”

The hand speeds, coaxing a second, traitorous moan to slip past his teeth. Ruvik mirrors it as his eyes roll back into the shadow of his hood. Now it’s his turn to reel, his head spinning as he dribbles a thin rivulet over his own fingers. Sebastian’s desperation is palpable, and intoxicating. As he nears his edge, Ruvik refuses to give it up so quickly, nor spare an ounce of the other’s trivial dignity.  

“Not yet.”

Despite trace reluctance, Ruvik releases them to devote his focus to the detective, wrapping his hand firm around the man’s swollen need. His smirk turns proud as he doubles his efforts, obliging every unspoken plea for more that betrays such hardened determination. That determination falters ever more as Sebastian reflexively struggles, drawing more blood from the wires that hold him in place. Ruvik pauses once to smear his palm with it, slicking his subject from base to tip in crimson before resuming his rhythm.

"Shit..."

Every nerve is on fire as the pain turns to pleasure.

“I know what you want, Seb.  Poor little Joseph’s made it very clear.”

“ _Joseph_ —?!” The name escapes through another choked moan.

 “Oh yes,” Ruvik titters, “He remembers this part of you _fondly._ ”

It's a low blow that gets Sebastian to spill. His back arches deeply with a stuttered gasp, his teeth sunk hard into the inside of his cheek to deny a scream. Ruvik’s smug demeanor briefly falters as he blinks in earnest surprise, fascinated by the seed that seeps over the puckered flesh of his fingers.

“Please stop,” Sebastian wheezes.

"Quit mewling. The body doesn’t lie.”

The detective’s face goes red with shame as he cracks his eyes open. “Get _off_ of me.”

Ruvik’s smirk remains, as does the hand around Sebastian’s disgrace. Its twin soon lowers to reattend to his own, neglected need.

“You really are mine.”

Anger gives quick way to exhaustion as Sebastian turns his face away. The color’s draining from his cheeks right along with the blood from his neck and wrists. His pulse slows while his breathing amplifies in his ears. Spotted vision teases the saving grace of unconsciousness.  His eyes begin to flitter closed, senses surrendering completely to numbing fatigue. The shock could very well kill him. By this point, he’d almost welcome it.

“— _Sebastian_.”

Ruvik’s victory wavers when Sebastian grows visibly weak. The stitches crudely sewn above his brow furrow with a contemplative glare as he considers his options. Once again, those unseen hands crawl over the detective to rouse him, tending to each and every hot spot, denying even the smallest solace. They tease over his neck, lapping at salty-sweet skin, hungry for the blood that sticks between them.

“I’m not through with you yet.”

The wires that bind Sebastian’s dominate hand suddenly retract, though freedom is fleeting. Ruvik’s fast to guide that very hand to his own erection, forcing the other’s calloused fingers to wrap tight around the base of his arousal.

“Huh—“

The detective swallows thickly against a drying tongue. Fatigue’s rendered him complacent, and his arm moves without much conscious effort at all. Yet, it’s still enough for Ruvik to gasp and shudder forward, disarmed by both the sensation and Sebastian’s immediate cooperation. He allows his eyes to close and his mind to wander, however shyly, to long, soft, ebony hair. It caresses him in his mind’s eye, flushing what little skin he has intact a bright, burning pink. Her name catches on the tip of his tongue while the head of his cock dribbles, washing blood from his subject’s fingers. His arms extend next, hands clasped tight to Sebastian’s shoulders for a temporary handhold.

“Oh, _yes…._ ”

Revulsion aside, Sebastian’s bewildered by his captor’s response. Ruvik’s downright _virginal_ in his grasp, quaking under the expert touch of a seasoned veteran. Christ knew if he had the strength, he’d rip the damn thing clean off. But alas, all that's left to do is get it over with. And so, the detective absently pumps his arm, tightening and loosening his grip as needed, going so far as to swipe his thumb across the other man’s beaded tip. It takes the very last of his will to look Ruvik in the face, his lips set in a tight line before he mutters, _“C’mon.”_

It’s meant to entice, or speed the process along, but the word comes out like gravel on pavement.

“Don’t speak,” Ruvik snaps through ragged breaths. His body begins to tense, defenses crumbling against the detective’s expert touch. Perhaps his unwillingness _adds_ to the thrill. Either way, a lifetime of discipline vanishes under its sway, stripping him bare of everything except blinding white heat. It shoots through him, piercing his very mind in time with a low, pitching groan. He soon empties himself in Sebastian’s hand, all but convulsing in forced, frantic silence until every last drop is spilled.

“You sick bastard…”

The detective lets go with an audible gag, his eyes screwing shut against tired tears. Bile blends with the thick of blood still lingering in the back of his throat.

“You’re fucking _sick!_ ”

Ruvik’s low laughter spirals around him as the weight lifts off Sebastian’s lap. The remaining wires recede as static fades from the room. It takes a frightened while to open his eyes, but when he finally does, the ghost is long gone. So are the gashes so freshly left behind by bounds that may’ve never really held him. The detective goes wide-eyed as he jolts up, his hand lifting to rake through sweat-soaked hair.

The walls, the floor, and the photographs.  
The pot roast gently wafting from the oven.  
Lily’s shoes, and Myra’s bag.  
His mind screams **home** , but _something’s not right._

_“Ruvik?”_

Sebastian glares around the room, eyes darting back and forth to study every corner. It’s a wicked game of spot-the-difference, but he’s no rookie. Besides, Ruvik’s made it easy for him. There on the table, in place of red roses, are sunflowers—lean and crowded in their stolen vase. The detective’s pulse throbs against his neck as he kneels for a better look, the veins beneath his eyes twitching as he squints.

The accompanying tag had originally read ‘To my darling, with love.’

Hesitant fingers turn it over to reveal a new message, scrawled in hurried, bleeding script.

**_'You’re mine.'_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Literally my notes for writing this piece of trash:
> 
> -This place is familiar BUT HE KNOWS SOMETHING IS UP  
> -Sebastian’s living room—chair with brooding cigarette burns  
> -He’s just sooooooo exhausted  
> -It’s been hours—maybe days, since he saw Joseph, Kidman, Leslie  
> -Think about past kiss with joseph (appeal to fandom aesthetic?)  
> -Sit down—notice sunflowers whEN IT’S TOO LATE  
> -Ruvik's cock is probably a mess  
> -Oh fuck how do I end this thing  
> -Clair de Lune plays softly in the distance (dubstep remix?)


End file.
